Ice and Fire
by Avariel600
Summary: My NWN 2 post OC brainchild what I think might happen after the original campaign. Also, sequal to Hero's Song! :P
1. Introduction

He hated the rain. It brought memories to his mind that he'd sooner see buried, lost and forgotten amidst so many others. He avoided towns, now-a-days; the war was still too recent in the minds of the people, and the talk that filled the taverns some nights made his mind reel, despair crushing down on him like a wave. They were forgetting, though; most people did, and went on with their lives, eventually. Before, her name had been on all their lips; now, it was rare that he'd hear someone talk about the War of Shadows, and how the southlands had almost been lost, and that young lady knight that had been at the center of it all; what was her name again? Some elven lass, yes, from one of those backwoods Mere villages...

He barely stayed in one town for longer than the time it would take for him to escape the weather in a local inn and sleep off the liquor he consumed. He had nightmares, sometimes..._him_, of all people. It amused him to no extent that his mind was still capable of conjuring up spooks, but then the brief month he'd spent wandering the Outlands like a crazed vagabond was enough to give any prime a nightmare, or two. The planes were no place for him; the gith could keep them. He had nearly died trying to find a way back to Toril; for once, he had been surrounded by all manner of creatures, who had considered _him _"soft." _There's a wake up call for you._

He wasn't surprised to learn the tiefling had made it back, as well. He'd found her in The Dancing Cyclops, Waterdeep of all places, eyeing purses in the drunken, lusty crowd that usually frequented there. That infernal blood of hers must have been good for something; wherever it was she had been tossed in that ripping, magical backlash that had caught them all, she seemed hardly scathed by it. And, he had to admit, she was clever...in a naively stupid way, sometimes, but clever nonetheless. Still, she'd wanted to kill him when she saw him, and only the fact that his knife had been faster out of the scabbard than hers had given her enough pause to listen to him.

But she had only shaken her head at him. "I haven't seen her. Or anyone. Didn't think anyone else survived until you drug yourself in here." Her expression was one of disgust. "And if you're the only other one that lived, then there really is no justice in the world. Do me a favor; point that frog-sticker of yours the other way 'round and fall on it." And she had dissappeared into the crowd.

He'd heard the paladin had survived, as well; a surprise, to him. Of all the people he'd expect to survive a backlash to the planes, the naively shining Casavir was not one of them. The man had been knighted on his glorious return, and now lorded it over his own keep east of Neverwinter, no doubt wallowing in duty and a renewed sense of purpose. He would have rather sliced his own throat than have bothered asking the paladin anything, and he'd not heard of or seen anyone else. And so, for close to over a year, he'd wandered.

When he'd first realized that some of the others had survived, he'd gone near mad looking for her, travelling up and down the Sword Coast until his boots were worn to almost non-existence. But it had taxed him, beaten him down; every time he'd passed a tavern and heard a fiddle being played, his heart would stop in the sudden, dizzying sickness that would always overtake him. But it was never a scarlet-haired, elven lass in those taverns, and the nightmares would come again when he slept...

So he stopped looking. No point, really; after all this time the rest were sure to be dead, or so far lost on the planes that it made little difference. _And even if she had lived, what in the hells makes you think she wouldn't kill you as soon as she saw you?_

_She said she loved me._

_Yeah, more of a reason to do it, I'd think._

He spat on the ground, elliciting an irritated growl from Karnwyr as the wolf sidestepped the offending projectile, and finally turned his boots back towards the road; curse this rain, he wasn't going to spend another night in it. The nearest chicken farmer's town was a few miles away; it'd have to do.


	2. Reunion

"Barkeep!" The man slammed his fist against the counter-top, his friends laughing as one of the other patrons' drinks rattled and tipped over in the subsequent vibration. "My glass is empty, and I can't think of a reason why! Shift yerself, you useless half-breed."

The half-orc bartender glared daggers at the offending personage, snatching the empty glass up with more than a little irritation. "Keep talking, Adoh...ye'll be on yer face in the mud before the night's out, I'll warn ye."

"As long as I have good coin to pay, I'll say what I like," grinned the human. "Or has business suddenly become so good that you can _afford _to throw people out, Bairn?"

The half-orc snorted in reply, but made no comment, sliding the refilled glass down the bar contemptuously. The door opened just then, and more than a few voices rose in complaint as cold air and wet rain blasted through the tavern; the newcomer was holding the door open, a vicious looking wolf trotting in behind him.

"Oy!" shouted Bairn, gesturing at the animal. "Ye can't have that thing in here!"

Dark eyes glittered from under the man's hood, and he shut the door behind him. The wolf sat back on it's haunches; Bairn's spine crawled at the steady, intelligent look in it's yellowish eyes.

One of the farmers lazing by the fire called out, "C'mon Bairn! That beast's probably more polite than most o' yer patrons, I wager."

"Quit your mouth, Himley," came Adoh's caustic reply.

The hooded and cloaked man remained hooded and cloaked, even as he moved to the bar to take a seat. _Ah. One of those types_. Bairn grunted. "You're responsible for that animal, then; it destroys anything, ye'll be paying me."

The man's lip curled in a sneer, but he gestured at the shelf of bottles behind Bairn. "Whiskey, if you've got it. And a room."

"That'll be fifteen o' them shiny gold coins, stranger, and I need to see 'em before ye get anything," the bartender said smoothly.

The man snorted, but threw a handful of coins on the bar. "And keep the drink coming."

o o o o o o

He was awakened from a sleep that was blissfully free of dreams to the sound of heavy, booted feet running past his door and down the stairs. And shouting. And was that the sound of metal striking metal...?

_Damn it all. _

Karnwyr shoved his nose against Bishop's hand where it hung over the edge of the bed, silent but insistent. He growled irritably, and sat up; he still wore his armor, having collapsed into a muzzily alcohol induced slumber, and he merely swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed his sword belt, buckling it on with fumbling hands. His quiver went over one shoulder and he snagged up his bow, moving silently to the door. With nary a creak, it opened...and he was nearly bowled over as two of the tavern patrons from earlier that night ran past him in pajamas, swords clutched in their hands. One of them shouted at him desperately as he ran down the stairs, "We're being attacked!"

_I'm getting my damn gold back._

A figure was in front of him at the base of the stairs, hacking downwards at the barely dressed bartender; an arrow went through the attackers skull with a sickening thunk, and as it fell it half-twisted, it's green-skinned face staring upwards in the light...

_Githyanki?! _They were everywhere, battering at the confused patrons while the latter attempted to organize into some type of formation and fight back. _Well, this scene was certaintly familiar. _He drew another arrow into his bowstring, his insides awash with puzzlement, but there was no time for thoughts; a slit-nosed face in mask of rage was screaming at him, charging with it's blade held high, and with a very steady exhale he shut one eye and let loose. He stepped over the githyanki even as it fell with a sputtering gurgle, aiming again without a second thought; two arrows against the string, and they both flew straight into their target.

The half-orc... _Bairn, was it?_ ...had a greataxe in his hands that gleamed wickedly sharp, and he was swinging it like he knew how to use it, too. Between the two of them, they managed to take out most of the gith; Bishop's last arrow sank into the neck of a githyanki about to strike down that loudmouth bastard that had been harrassing the barkeep earlier, and it jerked violently as it fell, revealing the young man to the view of the tavern; his back was pressed against the wall, face covered in blood, his eyes wide and frightened. Bishop felt his blood run cold.

In Adoh's hands was the Sword of Gith, it's blade dull and lifeless.

In half a heartbeat, he was across the room, his hand wrapping around the man's neck in a crushing grip. His eyes were mere inches from the other man's face, and there was such fire burning through his veins that it was no wonder Adoh whimpered; whether in pain or fear, it mattered not, but Bishop hoped it was both. "_Where did you get that sword?" _He bit off each word, his voice edged like the sharpest steel.

A thick, meaty hand clamped on Bishop's shoulder, trying to drag him away. Adoh struggled mightily, clawing at Bishop's hand. "Let me go!"

He squeezed harder. Adoh made a strangled, gasping noise, and then the hand on his shoulder became an axe at his throat. "Let him go, ranger," the half-orc growled behind him.

The edge of the blade pressed against his skin, and he nearly snarled as he released his grip. Adoh slipped out from his grasp and bolted out the door, and automatically, Bishop shifted to follow; but that damn axe... "Ye'll not be followin' him." The half-orc placed himself squarely in front of him, his eyes narrowed in an unspoken threat.

"Get that axe out of my face, or I'll make you eat it," he growled menacingly, reaching for an arrow...

With a resounding _CRACK_, an explosion rocked the tavern, and everyone left standing after the battle was knocked off their feet, to intermingle briefly with the corpses strewn across the floor. Bishop rolled away from the half-orc and was up a moment later, sprinting out the door, drawing the arrow back tightly as he crossed the threshold and burst into the midnight air...

A figure lay in the middle of the street...Adoh's lifeless eyes stared up at the blackened sky, his body a smoking, charred mess. His hands were empty. Bishop glanced around wildly, but he was alone in the square, save for the acrid smell of fading magic and burnt flesh.

Bairn had barreled out of the tavern door like a juggernaut on judgement day, but at the sight of the human's body lying in the street...his entire body seemed to deflate. His steps slowed as he reached Adoh's body; raw fury and sorrow raged a war across his face. A low, thunderous growl built in his throat, and he whirled on the ranger, raising his axe...

"Oh for the love of..._I_ didn't do this," Bishop said acidly, taking a precautionary step back. "Do I look the sorcerous type to you, you half-wit ogre's son?"

"You look the _murdering _type to me, ranger," Bairn snarled.

_Ah, if you only knew._ "Not far off. Put that thing _away_, I didn't kill him." He glanced at the corpse disdainfully. "I didn't get a chance to."

The half-orc narrowed his eyes, but the axe blade went down. Bishop released his bowstring...and his breath, not realizing he'd been holding it. "Where in the _hells _did he get that sword?"

"A question, no doubt, that all of us are eager to know the answer to," quipped a low, gravelly voice. A hooded figure stepped from the shadows at the side of the road, and Bishop caught a flash of glowing tattoo's...

"You," he said coldly.

Bairn's axe went up yet again as he whirled to face the newcomer. Bishop saw his mouth open, the beginnings of a belligerent accusation rising at the back of his throat; he sighed in resignation_. Like trying to reason with a catapult; they'd rather just take aim and fire._

"No, I didn't kill him either," snapped Ammon Jerro, pulling his hood down. The warlock ignored Bishop in that cool, arrogant manner of his; his eyes were trained on the half-orc's face, and his voice brooked a no-nonsense response. "Although I caught a glimpse of who did. Mind telling me who this man was, that made him so dangerous?"

"Adoh..." the half-orc sighed wearily. "He was me half-brother. Dumber than a brick, but quick with his fingers."

"And the sword?" snapped Bishop. The urgency in his voice was unmistakable, and he caught Ammon's eyes flicking to him in cold amusement. The fires that had gone cold after near a year of searching were burning in him once more.

"Came in to town with it yesterday, said he won it off o' someone." Bairn's eyes fell on the smoking corpse in the street. "Now I'm thinking that's not exactly what happened."

"I'd assume not. That weapon is no warrior's plaything to be lost in a gamble."

Bishop's eyes narrowed at he took in the warlock. "And you just show up, right as it appears in this backwater excuse for a town? You better tell me _everything_, Jerro."

"Or you'll do what, _betrayer_?" Came the acidic reply. "I was following the githyanki; for once, over the past few weeks, they've ceased hounding my steps like dogs on a fox's trail. It occured to me, as it might to those who make use of their higher brain function, that there was only one other person who'd hold their interest more so than myself."

_Harper_. His blood was boiling. "Tell me where the killer went."

Ammon laughed without a trace of amusement. "You are rather demanding for a man hiding behind a wooden stick with some twine on it. But I suppose you'll have your uses." The warlock's hood went up once more. "The sorcerer who took the sword left by magic; I can take us to where he teleported, but I'll need that keen little nose of yours to track him from there."

"I'm coming, too," said the half-orc evenly.

Two sets of dangerously narrowed eyes stared at him. He set his jaw stubbornly. "He was my half-brother."

Bishop arched a brow. "We could use someone to bash down doors," he muttered from the corner of his mouth. "And walking shields are always useful."

"So be it." Ammon's eyed the axe-wielding bartender warily. "If you hamper us, know that I won't hesitate to kill you myself."

Bairn snorted, but he merely hefted his axe over one shoulder as the warlock raised his hands, chanting...a mere flash of light and the pop of crackling magic, and they were gone.


	3. The Chase

_Lights flashing behind my closed lids...arms aching, pinprickles of fire running up and down the length of them. Throat dry, head clouded. Can't open my eyes. I'm so tired..._

_A voice somewhere in the muzzied darkness of my mind whispers; _This is a fine predicament to be in, yes?

_Go away._

You know, if you woke up and thought, for a minute, you could probaby get yourself out of this mess.

_I sigh lightly as a deep, sweet darkness slips over my thoughts, numbing the pain; smothering that voice. _

_So tired..._

o o o o o o

A booted foot kicked him awake. He opened one eye; Bairn's heavy featured face peered down at him. "Sun's setting. Time to move."

Bishop grunted, fully awake in the next instant. He hadn't wanted to stop to rest earlier in the afternoon, but Ammon had forced them all to sleep for a few hours; those crackling flames riding in his blood would have had him driving onward through the forest until...until what?

_Chasing ghosts again, are we?_

Ammon was up already, watching as Bairn smothered the fire with a few handfuls of damp dirt; Bishop wrapped his cloak around his shoulders once more and walked over to him. "Answer me something," he said shrewdly, tightening his quiver strap across his chest. "So far, all we've seen is the Sword; and it looks to me like _that's_ what those green-skinned mother-lovers are chasing. What makes you so certain..."

"...that Harper's at the end of this road?" Ammon chuckled humorlessly, and they began to walk, the ranger's eyes scouring the ground before them for the trail while Bairn took rear-guard. "The githyanki have been chasing us ever since they felt the Sword enter the outer planes; no sooner had our feet touched the ground than they were after us." His voice sounded tired.

After _us?_ "You were _with _her?"

"Me and the githzerai, yes," he rumbled. "And it was a good thing, too. Zhjaeve's people were the only thing that kept us alive, more than a few times." There was a grudging respect in his voice that had never been there before when speaking of the zerth.

"And she's alive, here?"

He could feel Ammon's eyes boring into the back of his neck. "You seemed to have grown a _touching _amount of concern for her well-being, ranger." There was a mocking amusement in his voice that said_ Considering you tried to kill her_. "I don't know if the girl is alive; we seperated in the Outlands, trying to confuse the githyanki hunting us. I had no idea whether or not Kross had made it back to Toril until I was suddenly without the pursuers that had been following me." The warlock's voice became quieter, thoughtful. "The Sword made it back, at least...it makes me wonder; if she is dead, how the blade is still formed? And if she's alive...why is she not wielding it?"

"If ye've been following the githyanki, wizard, then ye've got to know more than what yer lettin' on." Bairn's voice rolled over the two of them in a low, dangerous growl. "How'd me brother get that Sword? Surely ye saw somethin'."

Ammon's voice was contemptuous. "I don't know how that _lout _got the blade. I _do _know he's thrown me off Kross' trail quite effectively, and now I can only _hope _we're on it again."

"Hnh. Well, he threw those...whatever they're called, those green freaks, off yer girl's trail too, so don't be speakin' ill of the dead."

Bishop sneered slightly, not looking back at the two men following him. "Sound's like the half-orc has half a brain, Jerro." _And he has a good point._

"Be silent and watch the trail, ranger. If I want an opinion, or a dagger in the back, I'll let you know."

Bishop smirked humorlessly to himself. _Touché._

o o o o o o

Jerro had called for another halt at sundown, and Bishop drew first watch. Fine by him; he hated standing watch in the middle shift, you only got a few snatches of sleep on either side, and the last shift was worse; the mind of a human was a dangerously twisting place in the wee hours of the morning. He watched as the warlock leaned back against a tree, his hood pulled low over his face, and fell asleep while sitting near straight up. The half-orc was polishing the blade of his axe, sitting close to the fire; he showed no signs of weariness, and Bishop had to grudgingly admit that Bairn had not only kept pace with them the entire way, but he had not once complained, and he carried his own weight effectively. He could probably carry _all _of their weights effectively. These were things that those of little patience everywhere were eternally grateful for.

The half-orc glanced at him, firelight flickering off of his short-tusked face. "So who's this girl o' yers?"

Bishop snorted, his eyes fixed on the fire. "I don't recall inviting you to spark up a conversation."

The other man chuckled wryly. "Ah, drop the act already, tracker. Besides, the talk'll keep ye awake."

He didn't respond at first; but the only sound being that of Bairn's polishing rag squeaking across steel _was _beginning to grate on him, and he flicked a pebble into the fire absently when he spoke. "She's a bard. The knight from the War of Shadows."

The polishing rag froze for a moment. "The one from Neverwinter?"

"Yeah," Bishop replied caustically. "The one from Neverwinter."

Bairn laughed, then, and the polishing began in earnest. "If it weren't for that little wizard ye've got over there, I'd call ye a liar." He snorted. "And yer helpin' her out of the charitable goodness of yer heart, is that it? Or wait...yer makin' yer vows to the clergy, and ye've got to prove yer devotion..."

"I'd watch your tongue," he snapped, anger simmering in his voice. "Before I _really _surrender to the charitable 'goodness' of my heart, and put you out of your misery."

The half-orc merely eyed him, the insult rolling over his shoulder nearly unnoticed. A glimmer of understanding flashed in his eyes. "Ah," he said evenly. He looked back down at his work. "That explains it."

Bishop ignored him, staring sullenly at the fire. A few minutes later, Bairn's voice drifted over, "So why ain't she with ye anymore?"

Bishop glared daggers at him, and the half-orc laughed, raising his hands protectively in front of him. "An innocent question, lad! By the gods, yer a squirrely one."

The ranger snorted in what he hoped was a contemptuous half-chuckle. "Same thing happened as what happens with all women. In the end, I just couldn't get tied down." _So I betrayed her, left her to die in a war, then tried to kill her myself when she came looking for me..._

He conveniently kept that part to himself.

Bairn shook his head dissapprovingly. "Obviously, ye've never been properly tied down by a wench before." The brazen innuendo in his voice combined with the lecherously wistful look in the half-orc's eyes illicited a surprised, snorting laugh from Bishop. Bairn grinned at him. "Ah lad, ye seem like...well, not really a good sort. Actually, ye seem like a down-filthly rogue; but even a man like you's got to appreciate the touch of a good woman." Bairn yawned noisily, seemingly ignoring the now-icy silence emanating from the man across the fire from him. "But, it's all in the past, aye? Wake me for my watch." And with that, the half-orc tucked the axe next to him and rolled over, slipping into sleep almost instantly.

The rest of his watch seemed to take forever to pass, and when he finally did get the chance to sleep, the dreams came almost instantly...


	4. The Quarry

Caves. _Why was it always caves? What kind of fearsome, murdering, cat-paw licking commander of the elements hid himself away in a _cave? Bishop's thoughts were surly, chattering inanely to him, adamantly blocking out other thoughts that were trying to whisper underneath...

Ammon's voice hissed through the darkness behind him. "Are you _positive _this is right? Do _not _play me false, ranger..."

The smell of wet dirt and crushed leaves still clung to the air as he moved forward; underneath it was the acrid smell of sweat and days-old magic. He lifted his torch higher, catching the trail of mud that had been tracked across the dry-as-bone stone floor. "Positive."

He crept forward again, the other two men following; he could feel his heart pounding in his ears, his insides twisted with apprehension. That whispering thought broke through to the surface; _What if she wasn't here?_

What if she _was?_

_Concentrate on what you're doing, fool._

The passage forked abruptly in front of them, and he paused. The scents intermingled here, and he frowned as something caught his nose; an almost imperceptible molder of leather, and a metallic tang of blood...

He shot forward down the right tunnel, silent and sure, and he heard Bairn curse behind him as they moved to catch up. The tunnel twisted, and suddenly a screeching, fanged face thrust towards him out of the darknes, the sound of leather wings flapping. More of a reflex than anything, he swung the torch, catching the wyvern square in the eyes and sending it reeling back agains the wall, flames licking around it's body. Then his blade was out, and Bairn drew level with him; behind him he heard Ammon's gutteral voice chanting, and he felt the faint electrical charge that licked across his skin whenever magic was gathering in the air..

Three more wyverns came tumbling out of the darkness, and he was nearly decapitated as Bairn let out an earsplitting roar and swung. The blades of the greataxe scraped against each wall of the tunnel, sparks and blood flying. Bishop tucked and rolled, finding himself amidst thrashing tails and snapping jaws. With sword and torch, he fought on his back, Bairn's axe slicing the air above him; and then a ripple of red light shot over the half-orc's shoulder and ripped through all three creatures in quick succession. With a grating, hissing noise, they dissolved into nothing and silence fell once more.

Bishop held the torch high, staring in Ammon's direction. "Not bad."

"I assure you, your approval _warms _my heart." Bairn helped the ranger to his feet, and they pushed forward. A reddish light was stealing through the tunnel, and Ammon hissed under his breath, "Be warned; there's quite a bit of infernal magics at play here."

"Friends of yours?" came the acidic reply.

Bairn grunted. "I hate demons."

"And I'm sure they'll hate you, once they meet you." He turned another corner and the tunnel opened out into a wide, high-ceilinged cavern. Stalactites reached towards the floor like the teeth from the maw of some great beast, and there were various runes and circles carved into the stone floor. On one side of the room, there was a summoning circle; empty, for the time being. On the other side...a figure, wrists chained high above her head against the wall. Bishop's heart lurched in his chest as he took in the matted, scarlet hair, the tattered leather amor. Her head lolled slightly forwards, resting against her arm; she was gagged, and her eyes were closed, as if in a deep sleep.

Or death.

Ammon's hand was on his shoulder, restraining him before he'd even realized he's lunged forward, ready to break into a sprint. "Easy, _ranger_," he said in a steely voice. He glanced back into the warlock's luminous blue eyes. Ammon arched a brow at him. "The wards, on the floor; be wary of where you step, else who knows what will show up in that circle."

And after a particularly bone-snapping, momentary squeeze, the warlock's hand withdrew.

They stepped carefully, dodging the carvings in the floor; as he moved closer, he took in how lean she had become. Her cheekbones stood out in stark contrast against the rest of her face, and there were dark hollows around her eyes. Blood encrusted her hands from where the metal had chafed against her wrists, and her leather was marked with rips and tears, revealing multiple wounds in various stages of healing. _Looks like she fought whatever did this._

And he was there, his hands fumbling with the gag around her mouth. _Over a year_...she had haunted his thoughts, walked through his dreams and consumed his memories, and here he was, hissing her name and slapping at her face like a tavern-wench who's consumed too much wine. Her eyes opened groggily; dark grey, storming like the sky at sea...

Ammon pushed in next to him, examining the shackles around her wrist. "Nicely made; stand back." He extended an arm and shoved Bishop unceremoniously back a step, before pointing a finger at the metal. A quickly whispered incantation, a bright blast of red light, and...

...nothing.

"_Very_ nicely made," muttered Bairn.

She inhaled raggedly, her eyes opening a little more. She seemed to register that they were in front of her, because her eyes flicked to the north side of the chamber; she twitched her chin in that direction, sharp, urgent...

Just as a cold voice, rife with amusement, called out, "Visitors?"


	5. The Defeat

_Was I dreaming, again?_

_My vision was blurred, bright and hazy with the need to close my eyes and sleep again. Three cloudy figures moved away from me, towards the sound of Rashael's voice. But for a moment, those eyes that had been looking into mine, that face...it couldn't be him, could it?_

_I had been dreaming of daring rescues for the past three days...what is it three, or four?...that I had been chained up here like a sow ready for the slaughter. The constant darkness, the enfeebling spell on my brain, the lack of food and water, all turned into feverish dreams about someone barging in and saving me, and a few times I had thought they were true, had even tasted sweet freedom in the air above-ground. Then I had woken up in this dark cave, still chained. **Should have known better; you're the one that always did the saving. **_

_**So, who rescues the rescuer?**_

_And now, just like so many of those dreams, the dark-eyed ranger had been standing in front of me, pulling the gag from my mouth. Unlike the dreams, however, his face had it's usual perpetual scowl and his voice had been urgent, almost angry. "Harper! Wake up, damnit..."_

_Now, Rashael was speaking to them, and I was trying to shake my scattered thoughts into some type of coherency. "I assure you, the elf is well and truly chained; and you are all fools, to follow me here." His voice was patronizing, like speaking to very small children._

_Ammon Jerro's voice cut through the fog in my brain. "Rashael. It makes sense, that you still seek the Sword."_

_The tiefling laughed, and I felt a weak tugging in my chest as he drew the Sword from where it hung at his side. "Not seek it, not any longer. It belongs to me, now." I could barely see Rashael where he was standing, but the sound of his feet walking forward echoed off the walls of the cavern. "I knew you wouldn't be able to hold on to it forever, Jerro. And yet, it's an odd twist of fate that you're here." His voice was mocking, laced with malice. "Did you come here for the Sword's former owner, decorating my wall over there? Or for the blade itsef, perhaps?"_

_"Can we just **kill **him, now?" Hmm. Yes, that was definately Bishop. My insides gave a little shiver._

_"Was wonderin' when somone was goin' to say that," rumbled a lumbering, bulk of a man I didn't recognize. _

_But it wasn't that easy; I was beginning to realize nothing ever was. The tiefling sorcerer grinned at them humorlessly, and energy crackled down his arms, lancing off the tip of the Sword; he lifted the blade and drew a circle in the air, and the runes on the stone floors flashed brilliantly to life. _

_A rumbling shook the cavern, and I grit my teeth as the wall behind me jarred my spine with it's shaking. The circle on the other side of the room began glowing, and a form took shape in a roiling froth of shadow and flames. A pair of black, leather wings unfurled, and I felt my heart sink into my stomach as a hissing chuckle filled the room._

_"A Nabassu?" Ammon's voice was a mixture of contempt and awe. "You've gotten stronger, Rashael."_

_"Strong enough for you, little wizard," said the tiefling coldly, and just as he lifted the sword to attack, the black-skinned demon let out an earsplitting roar. The room was suddenly filled with undead, ghasts that appeared out of that black, cloudy mist pouring from the summoning circle. I strained once more against my shackles, my voice returning to me in a hoarse, wordless cry, as they fell upon the three men in the center of the room._

o o o o o o

"Did I mention that I hate undead, too?" shouted Bairn, his axe almost a whir of keeining metal in the chaos.

Bishop ducked a swipe from a particularly lethal looking set of claws, and drove his blade home, kicking the guttering thing away from him as it crumpled to dust. "If you fought with half the energy you spent speaking, orc, we'd be _done _with this already!"

Ammon and Rashael were blasting away at each other in what was a suitably impressive display of magical energies, swords flashing. The Sword of Gith looked as it had before, dull and lifeless, but it's edge was no less sharper for it, and Ammon dueled with the tiefling sorcerer grimly, his face a mask of concentration.

Harper was shouting something; she seemed to have gotten a little life back in her, but Bishop couldn't make out exactly what the words were. And, the wave upon wave of undead monsters trying to end his life was something of a distraction...

"Damn it!" he shouted as he ducked yet another wild swing from Barin's axe. "Will you _watch _yourself?"

The half-orc grunted as two more ghasts dissipated into dust, a resultant of the offending axe-swing. "Don't be blamin' me because yer fallin' behind on kills, ranger!" And with a near exhultant roar, the bartender-turned-slayer-of-undead threw himself on the on-coming forces, hacking madly.

Bishop, for the moment, was unaccosted, and Harper's half-formed, struggling words reached his ears..."_Cut _him!"

He whirled, realization dawning on him as he watched the warlock and the tiefling bounce spells off of each other. While they both looked reasonably put-upon, strain evident in both their faces, neither one had a mark on him.

_And runes covered the floor..._

An arrow was drawn against his cheek in the next instant, and he took careful aim; both spell casters were surrounded in an aura of protective magic, blades locked, each willing the other to lose control first. They were poised dangerously close to where Harper strained against her chains; he exhaled slowly, held his breath, and let loose.

It barely whizzed past the tiefling's ear, clattering harmlessly off the wall above Harper's head, who flinched, then swore violently at him as the broken shaft littered down on her shoulders. The tiefling glanced at the ranger, a contemptuous smile curling his lips...just as the second arrow imbedded itself in his shoulder with a sick, wet _thunk_.

He roared in pain and anger, and with a short, sharp wave of his hand, a mighty blast knocked both him and the warlock off of their feet. Rashael snarled at him. "Last mistake you'll ever make." He took a step back, his free hand rising, and his eyes glittered malevolently as he began an incantation. Another arrow was in the string, but Bishop knew he wasn't going to have the chance to make this one count...

And then, from behind the tiefling, he saw Harper grip her chains tightly, lift those infamously long legs of hers, and plant her foot squarely against the back of Rashael's head. There was a muffled _smack_ as she kicked him; not terribly hard, but hard enough that the tiefling stumbled, and Bishop merely had to let his arrow fly straight into the man's foot, toppling him over effectively. He let out a shocked, half-choked cry as he slammed into the ground, and blood splattered from his wounds across the runes etched into the floor. The Sword skidded away from him, clanging against the far wall like the fatalistic tolling of a bell...

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Instantly, the ghasts dissappeared; the nabassu roared with rage, and charged forward as the bindings around it faded. Rashael's attempts to scramble to his feet were impeded by the shaft sticking through one of the said feet, and in two heartbeats, the demon was upon him; it's arms wrapped around the screaming tiefling, claws rending, it's fanged maw opening wide in fiendsih joy; in a crackle of flame and shadows, it dissappeared, Rashael's screams fading into nothingness.

Harper sunk to the ground as the chains around her wrists dissolved in a flashing pop of dispelling magic. As they scrambled to her, she said, in a voice hoarse with disuse, "If I'm dreaming this time, I'm going to be royally pissed."

Bishop's bow went over one shoulder as he wedged his arms under her, helping her sit up against the wall. Her eyes fell on him, then, and the look in them made his blood sing in his ears. "You're the last person I'd expect to see here," she said, quietly.

Her voice sounded so tired, so bitter...it was nothing like the laughing, mocking elven girl who'd teased him relentlessly, and the sadness in that dulcet voice that had driven him mad stoked the ever blazing fires of his anger. "Show's what you know," he snapped, reaching into his pack for a healing potion. "We just saved your _life_, bard."

"Aye, and I'm grateful for it." And then a weary, disbelieving grin stole over her features, and his anger was almost just as instantly snuffed out as it was set alight. Her eyes moved to where Ammon Jerro now stood. "I see you made it back all right, wizard," she said, lightly. "Did our diversion work?"

"It worked for _me_. Once your feet touched Toril again, they completely forgot that I existed. You, however, I am going to assume had a harder time of it."

She snorted in disgust, examing her torn armor. "You could say that."

"Can the reunion wait until we're out of this place?" quipped Bairn; his voice was amiabe, but he kept shooting glances towards the fading circle.

Harper arched a brow at the half-orc. "And who are you?"

"Bairn, me lady. Happy to be of service to a war hero."

She seemed amused by that, but winced as she shifted. "Please tell me that you're a healer." She attempted to pull herself to her feet; Bishops arm went around her once more, helping her up, and she shot him an uneasy, bemused glance...but she didn't linger against his touch, pressing herself against the wall.

Bairn grinned. "Of a sorts. I'm a bartender."

"Ah. Well, I suppose you'll do, for now."

Ammon snorted derisively, but nodded. "He's right, though; we should leave immediately. The taint in these caverns will draw any number of hunters down here." He looked up at the half-orc. "Can you carry the girl?"

"I can walk," the girl said, irritation in her voice.

"Not fast enough. Don't argue, Kross, just do it. We haven't the time for your mule-headed stoicalness."

Bishop snorted in supressed laughter at the look on her face, but she complied with being hauled up piggy-back onto the half-orc's broad shoulders. And so they moved back out through the tunnels, the bard riding the half-orc, the blade that she had lost neatly tucked into her belt. Bishop couldn't see the Sword for the scabbard, but a luminescent glow was permeating even the thick leather that enfolded it. The Sword of Gith, back in the hands of the Shard-Bearer, was shining once again.


	6. The Kindling

"As soon go kindle fire with snow,  
as seek to quench the fire of love with words."  
William Shakespeare

o o o o o o

_I opened my eyes to sun streaming through the window, caressing my face. It was searingly bright, and just as heavenly; even after only a few days chained in that dark, suffocating place, the kiss of sunlight was sheer bliss. Bairn had deposited me in one of his better quality rooms; I couldn't help but smile when I thought of the bartender, bringing me half a tankard of pure Firewhiskey the night before, after the cleric's magic had run dry. He had merely grinned at me, said, "Here's the real magic," and had helped me pour it unceremoniously down my throat. I had slipped into a deeply uneventful, alcohol induced sleep, the whiskey numbing the worst of my aches._

_I sighed, and stretched carefully; the town's one misbegotten cleric had still been able to heal me somewhat; as for the rest of my wounds, they'd take time to heal, and they complained to me sharply as I tried to move. _

_A shifting sound caused my head to turn sharply; Bishop was sitting in a chair, head bent, elbows resting on his knees while he fletched an arrow. He didn't look up when he spoke. "Awake, are we?"_

_I didn't answer right away...he was frowning slightly in concentration, and I found my eyes wandering over the smooth, slightly tensed muscles in his neck, the rounded curve of that oh-so-human ear, the faint scars that traced his features. He looked the same as he had that last day, when he had stood tall and beautiful and dangerous in the rising sun, his words shooting through me like a quiver of arrows. And yet...there was a quiet weariness that had settled on him, an unfamiliar resignation that clashed with his usual simmering-under-the-surface anger. It hung on him like a heavy cloak, and was seen just barely in the deepening lines around his eyes._

_"Why are you here?" I asked, and the words themselves were so painful that I had inhale deeply to calm the quaver in my voice. Scourge of Luskan, Hero of Neverwinter, Shard-Bearer, Planes-walker, and here I was, fighting back tears because an old lover was in the same room with me_. Damn it...it's been over a year..._and here he was, sitting across from my bed as if nothing had ever happened._

_He looked up, met my eyes. "I saved your hide. What kind of a rescuer would I be if I didn't stick around to ensure that hide stays in one piece?"_

_"You tried to kill me. I wouldn't figure that would be high on your priority list," I said sharply. _Ah. The tears are being persistent, I see.

_He arched a brow at me, some of that old mockery flashing out at me through his eyes. "llie sint mankoi amin naa sinome, lindo." _

You know why I'm here.

_"Maybe I don't want you here," I said. Thankfully, my voice was steady as a rock when I said it, for my heart was wrenched so fiercely in my chest that I nearly flinched._

_"Ah, and that isn't the truth, is it?" He moved to the bed, then, sitting and facing me, and I stared up into the sudden nearness of his face. "I've been looking for you, bard."_

_"Why? Intent on finishing the job?"_

_Rough, calloused fingers came up to cup my face, and I felt my entire body grow very still, trapped under his gaze. Those mocking eyes narrowed at me...and for the first time, I realized that most of that mockery was directed at himself. "My offer still stands, Harper. Amn, Cormyr...hells, Icewind Dale, if you want it. I'll get us there."_

_I was hardly breathing. "You realize what that means? I'll be running, constantly, possibly for the rest of my life. The githyanky won't give up the chase until they have the Sword back," My voice was barely above a whisper, harsh and unbelieving. _

_"Then we'll keep cutting them down as they come. They'll run out of stalkers, soon enough." _We. _He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Sound good enough for you?"_

_"I couldn't even _begin _to trust you again!"_

_"That's not what I asked." And in half a breath, his lips closed the short distance to mine; and old, familiar warmth crept through my skin, hotter than the streaming sunlight through my window, and the ice that had formed around my heart cracked. A little. I pulled away from him slightly. "If you betray me again..."_

_"I'll stick around to let you kill me." Impatiently, he pulled me into his kiss once more. Another crack._

_A moment later, I pulled away, shaking my head. "No, I just...I can't. You..." I paused, and looked up at him, suspiciously. "You were looking for me?"_

_He chuckled, then, low and smooth, and the sound rolling over me shattered the last of the frost. "Lindo," he said, raw, flickering heat in his voice, "I haven't traveled so far in my _life_, looking for your sorry hide." He gently shoved me back against the bed, stretching out full length alongside me, and in a daze, I found myself moving over to give him more room. His lips descended on my sharply pointed ears as he brushed the hair away from my face. "You owe me a new pair of boots."_

o o o o o o

Bairn thundered up the stairs, his spirits light. The warlock had left earlier; and a good riddance, too. The man had made his spine want to crawl up and hide in his mouth. Bartenders were built to deal with drunkards, thieves, brawlers, bandits, and cutpurses, but anyone who could turn the ale you were drinking into frog's blood was just not worth the risk to have around.

He knocked on the farthest door down the hall. "Lass? They've got some food in the kitchens fer ye, if yer feelin' up to it." No answer. He frowned, and surreptitiously cracked the door, peeking inside.

The bed was fastidiously made, a handful of coins left on the pillows. There was no sign of anyone in the room. He frowned slightly, opening the door wide and striding in. The coins flashed as he picked them up. _Hmph. _At least she tipped well.

His heart was a little heavy as he glanced around the empty room one last time before thumping out again, shutting the door behind him. Ah well, she seemed a good enough lass. Ever since his return, the little tavern had somewhat thrived; a gleaming githyanki skull was stuck over the door, now-a-days, and there were rumors flying thick and fast that the tavern was cursed. Ironically, this seemed to encourage more people to stay there.

He glanced in the ranger's room down the hall, just to make sure. It was empty, as well.

He smiled to himself, just a little, and then turned, whistling while he thumped back down the stairs.


End file.
